


it all has to be okay eventually

by leedeeloo



Series: Flytrap [3]
Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Bombus Tron is mentioned, Gen, Grief, past bombus tron/lord phobos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25836427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leedeeloo/pseuds/leedeeloo
Summary: It's the end of it. It's coping. It's whatever Phobos can call it.
Series: Flytrap [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1368970
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	it all has to be okay eventually

**Author's Note:**

> originally written in 2016

He thought about it, y’know. Reminisced and tried to, pardon the term, pin things down. It’s not like he didn’t have the time for it.

It didn’t get him while he was busy, it wasn’t something in the front of his mind. Just when he was in between things, a pause in his life. Like at 4 AM when he set down a book and couldn’t decide on the next one. Or when he woke up a few hours too early, it would settle in his mind as he rolled over and waited for sleep to wash over him again. 

But sometimes, for reasons he couldn’t understand or justify, he’d grab Bombus’ old shirt from his closet and make it hit him. 

He was weirdly sentimental about that shirt. It stayed on the top shelf of his closet, in an airtight plastic bag. It had been years, but it still smelled of that night, of grass.

Maybe it could have been more. Maybe that was all Bombus wanted. Or Phobos was a means to a truly sick end. He tried not to hold onto that thought when it came into his head, but when it managed to take root he’d crawl into someone else’s bed until it rotted and left. 

Most often, he tried to figure out a _word_ for what they were. Some kind of label, making the entire relationship fit a definition. Of course he’d have to wallow in his own feelings, had done it enough times to know it was love, but he tried to dissect it, divide it down, know exactly what kind of love, or how many different types played into it all. As if that would fix or change anything; that’s what he told himself, mocking tone in his own head, before getting right back to playing historian. 

Foolishly, he kept a journal. Just to document the memory, over and over. Writing it down, putting it somewhere out of his head, helped a little. The first retelling was scrawled on the backs of receipts, now folded and taped into said journal. Another was tapped out and saved in the notes of his phone. He started using that function more after he did that, to hide it deeper and deeper. 

Every time he wrote it out, his hand shook a little less, his writing would stay steady longer, he didn’t have to stop in the middle, the whole narrative would roll out on the page. It got less harrowing, less something he hoped was a bad dream he’d wake up from, and more a static past event. It felt more and more like history, something that was so far back and simply destined to happen, so there was no point in worrying about it for longer. 

The shirt stayed hidden away, but the journal got kicked around his room a bit. He planned for when he’d eventually fill it up, having narrowed down his options to either brazenly leaving it out to be read, or burning it. 

Hopefully, by the time it was full, he’d wake up in the day and ruminate on that instead.

**Author's Note:**

> tbh im only posting this bc i drafted it and if i dont post it itll get deleted


End file.
